Dean Smith is married to his job. If anyone asks if he’s got a wife he says yes and proceeds to tell them all about his work as Director of Marketing at Sandover Inc. And if they ask if Dean’s got kids? He tells them that his employees are almost like children, especially the ones that are barely over twenty.
Long story short: Dean’s entire life is at Sandover, and he doesn’t do much else but work. There are days, once in a blue moon, that Dean will go out and attempt to have fun with people from work, but that’s it; he has no one to go home to every night, no one waiting for his arrival, and no one to share his big, empty house with.
Sam Wesson, on the other hand, is not married to his job in Tech Support at Sandover, and he spends most of his free time out and about. He goes out to parties, bars, and tries to have as much fun as he can, to forget about the mundane things he does at work. Of course, Sam isn’t totally irresponsible: he doesn’t go out every night, nor does he get so plastered that he calls in late the next day; he parties just enough to sate him.
Neither man has seen the other out of their work attire, and Sam thinks that Dean lives in his fancy suits and ties; he would bet that Dean even sleeps in them, treating each and every suit like his children. And Dean’s never thought about Sam in anything but his ugly, yellow polo and khakis — though he’s hardly ever thought about the guy, only when he sees him or needs something fixed.
This all changes, of course, when Dean and Sam end up at the same bar, at the same time, on the same Friday evening after work.
They don’t see each other at first; Sam spends most of his time at the bar, smiling at men older than him, weaseling drinks out of them. And they basically pour them down his throat while Dean sits at the other end of the bar, a lone beer in his hand, eyes scanning the place.
It isn’t until they both go to the bathroom that they run into each other — literally. Sam curses Dean when their bodies collide and he stumbles backwards a few feet, mumbling something about watching where he’s going. When he looks up, Sam stops mumbling and his eyes go wide, breath catching in his throat when he sees Dean — or Mr. Smith as he calls him at work.
"Sorry, sorry," Dean mutters, straightening his clothes before looking up at Sam, facial expression apologetic until they lock eyes. His lips part slightly and Dean breathes softly through his nose, taking in every inch of Sam he can seem to lay his eyes on, taken back by the beauty of the man out of his work clothes.
"Mr — Mr. Smith?" Sam chuckles, pursing his lips together.
The sound of his name falling from Sam’s lips sends a shiver down Dean’s spine and he shakes his head, waving a hand dismissively, smiling. “Call me Dean — we’re not at work, Sam.”
"Oh — kay." The words come from Sam’s mouth in a huff and he lifts a hand, scratching the back of his head, unable to take his eyes off Dean. There was something different about him - other than the obvious lack of a suit - and Sam couldn’t put his finger on it, though he wanted to put his fingers - and hands and lips - all over Dean.
Chuckling quietly, Dean locks gazes with Sam and swallows thickly, watching as the other man scratches his head. Images flood his mind and Dean bites down on his lower lip, thinking about his own hand being in Sam’s hair, tugging the long locks. A barely audible groan leaves his mouth, muffled by the lip caught between his teeth and Dean laughs again.
"So, it’s nice to see you out of the office," he starts, breaking the ice and calming the tension between them. Sam nods and moves his hand to the nape of his neck, smiling softly at Dean. "You look — nice, you know, without the ugly yellow and beige combo."
Sam laughs, a little louder, and nods again. “I hate that uniform. I found out that I don’t have to wear it but I thought — why the hell not? I’ve been wearing it for a year and a half already, might as well keep going.”
And Dean watches Sam’s mouth moving, feeling his own water and he swallows thickly, nodding as Sam talk. When the words die away, he steps forward on instinct, keeping Sam’s gaze, before lifting a hand to his jaw, rubbing his heel against it.
"What are you doing?" Sam asks, though he knows what’s going on and he doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want the feeling of Dean’s skin against his to go away. Shaking his head, Dean cups Sam’s jaw and leans up, tilting his head to the side, kissing him softly.
The kiss doesn’t last long and it’s over as soon as it starts, Dean easing away from Sam, licking his lips slowly. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks and he drops his hand away, moving back half a step.
"Sorry," he says, the blush deepening, "I just had to do that. I dunno what happened; some carnal instinct, I guess." He and Sam laugh in unison and Dean suddenly feels more relaxed than before, listening to Sam’s laughter.